...quiet, about a lot of things...
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Pandora's Box Bites
Pepek poses a question over at her blog...I think she was asked by Rob.....What do you do to court your muse? If you've read my blog for long..you'll know I have written on this subject often. I went back to re-read some of my thoughts...and found my first entry about him the most honest
Go here to read.
As in everything..."I spoke some version of the truth". Love that Nicholson line from Somethings Gotta Give.
There are things I left out. Out of decorum, out of respect for privacy..ok.. I left them out because I am a chicken. I have thought REALLY HARD about why this man is my muse. It troubles me. It makes me think I'm turning into a stalker. But all along I have known the truth.
And here is the truth.
I read his journal once. It was a BAD HORRIBLE thing to do. I would not, could not do it now. But I was a stupid selfish, cowardly girl, for a very long time. So I did it, while he was down in the basement chanting voo doo spells with his fraternity brothers.
I wanted to read how he loved me, adored me, craved me. And there was some of that. But then there was this..."I DISGUSTED him." Yep. Disgusted. That word catches in my throat even now. Did I leave him?? Did I tell him to go f**k himself for a while and see how that worked for him??
Nope. I tucked his journal back,and probably loved him even more.
You see, I have always loved and disgusted myself. For various reasons. I was, from that moment on, attached to him...I had found the one person who openly confessed he felt the same way.I was so curious to know (and still am..) just which of the many things digusted him, and which he lusted for. I was hooked. He continued a lover for a while after that...Then he was a non issue,for many many years. Someone tucked deep under layers of scaring and self delusion.
But when he came back as a muse, he came back with a vengeance. He carries just the right whip to spark a welt that aches to scratched, bringing the dirty, unsavory contortions of me the the surface. He makes me write. He brings forth ever unquenchable thirst for redemption and acceptance. I look and gather and reflect and confess. My work is nothing more than me crying out into the dark..to the person who may have known me best, the loathable and loveable.. the horrible, lovely all of me. I cry to the person he was, the boy he was, who judged me so harshly, and cherished me still, in spite of himself.
I come to that person, when my cup is empty and my throat is dry. I promise to swallow whatever he offers..bitter or sweet, and let it work it's way down to my murky deepest darkest places.
Go here to read.
As in everything..."I spoke some version of the truth". Love that Nicholson line from Somethings Gotta Give.
There are things I left out. Out of decorum, out of respect for privacy..ok.. I left them out because I am a chicken. I have thought REALLY HARD about why this man is my muse. It troubles me. It makes me think I'm turning into a stalker. But all along I have known the truth.
And here is the truth.
I read his journal once. It was a BAD HORRIBLE thing to do. I would not, could not do it now. But I was a stupid selfish, cowardly girl, for a very long time. So I did it, while he was down in the basement chanting voo doo spells with his fraternity brothers.
I wanted to read how he loved me, adored me, craved me. And there was some of that. But then there was this..."I DISGUSTED him." Yep. Disgusted. That word catches in my throat even now. Did I leave him?? Did I tell him to go f**k himself for a while and see how that worked for him??
Nope. I tucked his journal back,and probably loved him even more.
You see, I have always loved and disgusted myself. For various reasons. I was, from that moment on, attached to him...I had found the one person who openly confessed he felt the same way.I was so curious to know (and still am..) just which of the many things digusted him, and which he lusted for. I was hooked. He continued a lover for a while after that...Then he was a non issue,for many many years. Someone tucked deep under layers of scaring and self delusion.
But when he came back as a muse, he came back with a vengeance. He carries just the right whip to spark a welt that aches to scratched, bringing the dirty, unsavory contortions of me the the surface. He makes me write. He brings forth ever unquenchable thirst for redemption and acceptance. I look and gather and reflect and confess. My work is nothing more than me crying out into the dark..to the person who may have known me best, the loathable and loveable.. the horrible, lovely all of me. I cry to the person he was, the boy he was, who judged me so harshly, and cherished me still, in spite of himself.
I come to that person, when my cup is empty and my throat is dry. I promise to swallow whatever he offers..bitter or sweet, and let it work it's way down to my murky deepest darkest places.
3 Comments:
WOW. This was worth waiting for!
PS "I spoke some version of the truth"...is another great line for a tombstone, doncha think?
This is, as is all of your writing, brutally honest. That you are willing to face all that 'TRUTH' is mind boggling to me - for I am a scaredy cat if ever there was ... I guess what you are saying is that you are facing the best and the worst every time you write - which is really the only honest way to do it.
"I spoke a version of the truth' reminds me of "In my reply, I lied a bit and said I did not know ...' which is a line of a Linda Ronstadt song I just love - a song by Livingstone Taylor called 'In My Reply'.
Post a Comment
<< Home